


Furniture as Declarations of Affection

by BFab



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Feels, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 16:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BFab/pseuds/BFab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack calls him "<i>mon cher</i>"  and Bitty thinks it's weird that he won't even call him his hockey nickname but sure, yeah, call me a chair, babe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Furniture as Declarations of Affection

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Anne](http://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight) for not only requesting more Check Please! fic, inspiring me to write this, but also for the beta of a fic that I jotted in a notebook and typed mostly on my phone and was riddled with mistakes. I'm actually quite pleased with it now. You make me a better writer, sugar pie.

Jack Zimmermann is one stoic son of a bitch. He knows his reputation, knows what people say about him. The Swallow regularly refers to him as "Samwell's own hockey robot" and some of his teammates mockingly salute him behind his back when he's trying to get everyone in gear at practices. It's not that he doesn't feel things, but his anxiety has him stuck in his head a lot. Internalizing everything makes it seem like nothing is affecting him, but that’s just not the case. Still, a rich, gorgeous, talented hockey player (second generation of all those things, in fact) with what Shitty affectionately calls a “terminal case of resting bitch face” is intimidating and there aren’t many people who manage to sneak under his armor. He'd rather appear to be put together and in control than shaking apart like he feels on the inside. If that makes him look mean or scary, he'll deal with it. 

Shitty was the first person in a really long time able to get past Jack's walls. Even Kent, for all they were to each other, was kept a careful emotional distance away. Jack just couldn’t risk it. But Shitty didn’t ask to be let in, he forced his way through with a goddamn crowbar. He was Jack’s opposite in every way. Loud, affectionate, unapologetically comfortable with himself, confident, and completely undeterred by Jack’s apparent standoffishness. When Jack would go quiet and not speak a word for hours, Shitty would fill the silence with his comfortable one sided chatter. When Jack would retreat to his room and sit on the floor, hunched in on himself and trying to be smaller, Shitty would come in and fill the extra space (generally naked). To Jack, it felt like Shitty was exposing himself and making himself as obviously vulnerable as possible to make Jack feel better about how exposed and flayed open he felt during anxiety episodes. He would give token protests about Shitty being naked on his bed, but he couldn’t actually be mad. Besides, Shitty was a gentleman and always stayed on top of the comforter because there are lines you just don’t cross. He’d sprawl on Jack’s bed, use his whole body to tell stories instead of just his hands. Every time Jack pulled away, Shitty would push his way right in, balancing him, grounding him. Jack was sure he’d never find anyone he could be comfortable around like he was with Shitty - sure that he’d never even want to. Hell, he didn’t want to with Shitty, but he didn’t get a choice, and sometimes he let himself be glad about that. 

Then a tiny blond figure skater showed up on his team.

Jack didn’t know what to do with himself. He had never felt so drawn to someone before. Shitty had strong-armed his way into Jack’s heart, he was the best friend Jack had ever had, but. 

_Bittle_.

When Bittle first joined the team, when Jack first felt that pull, he tried to fight it. He'd never felt this before; it wasn't just attraction (there was plenty of that, and it was immediate) but he wanted to protect him, to wrap him up in a blanket and get him cocoa. His hand kept moving to brush Eric's bangs back before he realized what he was doing and forced it down to his side. Anytime he’d try and talk to Eric he would panic and his brain would shut down. One time he told him to "eat more protein.” What the fuck. He knew he looked like a total asshole when he didn't want Bittle on his line, but he thought he'd be too distracted trying to watch out for him to be able to play well.  
Apparently his attempts at concealing his attraction translate into murder glares. He can't help it.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he relaxed around Eric. Coming up with early-morning checking clinics to get alone time with him while keeping Jack firmly in his comfort zone (read: hockey)? Totally creepy and an abuse of his captain powers, Jack was well aware. But they helped Jack talk to Bittle without looking like a complete moron. _Conversations_ even happened. But instead of Jack getting over his crush and being able to think of Bittle as a teammate only, it just made it worse. 

~~~

Besides being gorgeous, Eric was sweet and kind and so goddamn earnest in everything he did. He was a caretaker, making the Haus into a home, turning teammates into family. Bittle was always in the kitchen, but rarely alone. He wouldn't let anyone help him cook, and anyone who ventured to sneak a taste of an unfinished pie would get a sharp thwack on their knuckles with a wooden spoon, but everyone sought out his company. 

Shitty was surprisingly calm when he was in the kitchen with Eric. He'd sit quietly at the table and study, bobbing his head along to Beyoncé as Bittle bustled around. Periodically a fresh cup of coffee would appear at his elbow, or sandwich on a plate in front of him. He'd never been more productive.

Lardo would sit on the counter, getting flour all over her jeans, and talk out her visions for her art. She didn't even need Eric's input, just someone to listen. Shitty would go on and on about her ideas and how brilliant they were, making it hard to get all of the words out of her brain and into the open like she needed; apparently there was such a thing as _too_ supportive.

Ransom would talk about Holster, venting his (totally platonic) bestie frustrations, like how he keeps running out of clean underwear because "Adam keeps wearing them and like, bro, fine, what's mine is yours, right? But he could at least help me out with the laundry! I've started hiding his stuff to get back at him."

Holster would plop himself into a chair and sigh, "How can I have misplaced my pillow? Did I use it for a drunk nap on the couch? Or the lawn? Or the roof?? I dunno, man." He slapped his hands on his knees and stood up, "I guess I'll just use Ransom's. I'm sure he'll be cool with it; half the time it ends up on the floor anyways and he _knows_ how important it is for me to have my pillow." 

The frogs would gather in there to panic over midterms or a game coming up and Bitty would calm them down with his sweet, slow accent and comfort food.

Jack would randomly find himself hovering in the doorway, eyes tracking the dip and sway of slim hips as Bittle danced his way to a pie. Eric (Jack kept his first name safe, sacred in his mind and stuck to _Bittle_ out loud) would catch him looking sometimes and give him a soft smile, the tips of his ears turning pink, but he never pushed him. He’d acknowledge Jack, made sure he knew he was welcome to cross the threshold, then go back to his baking without demanding anything from him.

~~~

Jack signed up for a cooking class. Well, a history class that involves food, which gave him a plausible excuse to be in the kitchen (where Eric was) and a way to have a common interest that wasn't hockey. He did not, however, anticipate Eric being in the class with him. It worked out much better than he had planned.

Finally, finally, Jack built up his courage. He was going to _flirt_. Step one: go to a party. Easy enough, all he had to do was not hide in his room. Step two: find Eric. Also easy, just look for the glowing screen of a cell phone. Step three: engage. He’d thought about it all day, and figured that taking a selfie with Eric was a great plan: he’d be doing something he knew Eric was comfortable with that was also an excuse to get close to him. From there it was just a matter of staying close, leaning in to be heard over the noise of the party, maybe suggesting they go upstairs so they could keep talking…

Fucking Kent.

~~~

Eventually, after way too long, Jack got his shit together and made a move. He had already graduated, and came back to campus to watch the team’s opening game. The day before the game he snuck into Eric’s room to wake him up, “While it’s still dark outside, Jack, this is ridiculous and I’ll have you know I haven’t had a problem with checking in forever, this is really just unnecessary-” 

Jack let him prattle on as they walked to the rink, smiling fondly at the sleepy southern drawl that was more pronounced with Eric’s annoyance. He felt at home here, on the ice with Eric, felt settled in a way he didn’t realize he’d been missing. 

Bittle, far from a cowering freshman, gave as good as he got. He was faster than Jack remembered, and even though he might look scrawny, the kid was a lifelong athlete and all lean muscle. He’d learned to take a hit, and how to deliver one. They played for a long time, moving together on the ice like they’d never been apart, and the tension grew the whole time. 

Jack sprinted after Bittle, trying his damndest to catch him, and was on the path to check him into the boards when Eric pivoted suddenly at the last second and put his hands up defensively. It was too late to stop his momentum and Jack crashed into him, one hand grabbing his waist while the other flew to the back of Eric’s neck to keep him from hitting the boards at a weird angle. Their bodies pressed close together, chest to chest, Jack holding him in an awkward embrace. It was long past time for Jack to pull away but he was frozen there, feeling the heaving of Eric’s chest even through all the pads and layers they wore, staring down into his big brown eyes, admiring the flush of exercise on his cheeks, finally zeroing in on his mouth, where his lips were slightly parted. 

“Je veux,” he started, his translation jumbled in his brain, “-can I?”

Eric managed a breathy “Jack-” and a quick nod before Jack closed the distance and they were kissing. It was everything Jack had always thought. _More_. Eric kissed like he baked, like he skated, with everything he had to give and with his whole body and with such sincerity. It was passionate but not heated, urgent but not desperate, and overwhelmingly, achingly, sweet. 

~~~

Jack and Bitty weren’t what anyone would call “casual daters,” so once things (fucking _finally_ ) got going for them, they were both in it. Jack visited when he could manage it with his schedule, and watched as many games as he could. Eric had less flexibility, what with school and hockey both, but he was thrilled to be able to attend a few of Jack’s games, and always wore a Zimmermann jersey on Jack’s game days. 

Jack, ever the introvert, wasn’t big on displaying affection, but Eric learned to read the signs. For starters, Jack called him “Eric” now. The genuine smiles, while still rare, were more and more frequent, and happened almost regularly when they were alone together. A few times Eric had felt Jack running his fingers through his hair, but it only happened when Jack thought he was asleep. It was in one of these moments, lying in bed in the early hours of the morning when Jack was petting Eric's hair, that Eric heard him murmur something. He didn't catch it, and he was already back asleep before he could think to try and figure it out. 

It happened again a few days later (Eric may have been keeping extra still in the hopes of petting), Jack's fingers wandered to brush lightly over his cheekbones, eyebrows, nose, and a soft " _mon cher_ " was breathed into the space between them. 

~~~

The next morning, Jack padded out to the kitchen, bare chested and wearing worn flannel sleep pants, where Eric was making himself comfortable in Jack's kitchen, dancing to the radio in cute pink boxer briefs and an old tshirt of Jack's that was slipping off one shoulder. 

" _Qu'est-ce que c'est-_ Eric, are those crepes?"

Eric turned to him, beaming. "Why yes they are, honey bunch! I wanted to give you a nice French Canadian breakfast."

Jack let out a small but genuine smile, and kissed him on the cheek, " _Merci_ , Eric, it smells delicious."

"No problem, my sweet table. Now if you could fetch that maple syrup your mom brought when she visited-" Eric turned to see the most adorably confused expression on Jack's face, "Jack? Syrup?"

"Did you just call me a table?" Jack asked, thoroughly baffled. 

"Well," Eric shrugged a slim shoulder as he slid a crepe onto the stack of cooked ones and poured batter for another, "I know you aren't big on pet names, I mean, I realize that you calling me Eric is your version of an endearment, and it's fine, but, you never even called me Bitty, so anyways, you called me 'chair' and I thought that was weird but sure, babe, let's go with furniture now?"

He turned away from the stove to find Jack frozen in place, bright pink from his bare chest, all the way up to his hairline and the tips of his ears, "Y-you heard that?" He stammered out. 

Eric looked guiltily at the floor, "Oh, well, don't be mad, I know you thought I was sleepin' but Jack, you're so dang sweet sometimes, and I like seein' that side of you, and it just feels so nice when you pet my hair- I'm sorry. I took advantage." He turned back, flipping the crepe on the stove. 

Jack felt terrible, Eric shouldn't feel guilty for wanting affection from his boyfriend. He slid up behind him, arms around his waist, and kissed the top of his head. 

"It's French," he said into Eric's hair as he piled the last crepe on top of the stack and turned off the stove, "it means 'my dear,' basically." 

He was mumbling at the end, Eric could barely understand the words, but he spun in Jack's arms lightning-quick, pressing up into Jack's chest and looped his arms around his neck.

"Jack Laurent Zimmermann," he said (he meant it to come out as a seductive purr but he was smiling so big it ended up giddy), "have you been calling me an honest-to-God, sweet, romantic nickname?"

Jack blushed harder, if that was possible, and gave the counter behind Eric's shoulder an embarrassed nod. The next thing he knew he had hands full of boyfriend, Eric's slim, strong legs wrapped around his waist and a tongue sliding into his mouth. Eric kissed the hell out of him for a minute before pulling back just enough to gasp out, "Breakfast will keep. Bedroom. _Now_."

He made to scramble down and walk, but Jack grabbed two handfuls of firm, pert ass and started walking towards the bedroom, carrying Eric, laughing in his arms, to bed.

~~~

Jack still isn't big on PDA, he'll probably never be comfortable with it, but when it's just him and Eric in the apartment, lying tangled under sheets, he pours every endearment he can, in French and in English, into his mouth, his skin, into the space between them as they share a pillow. 

When Eric inevitably gets the questions from reporters and fans about how someone so bubbly and flamboyant could make it work with notoriously closed off Jack Zimmermann, he just gives a sly smile and replies, "We understand each other."


End file.
